


The Tale of the Dead God

by otherhawk



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Cults, Gen, Halloween, If you had to pick someone to possess....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:02:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5103953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherhawk/pseuds/otherhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the conclusion of a successful mission, Napoleon and Illya wake to find that they've been kidnapped by a dark cult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tale of the Dead God

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the pic fic challenge on Section VII

Napoleon woke in the darkness, stripped to his boxers and bound hand and foot. His head was pounding and his mouth and throat were dry and burning. This wasn't good; the last thing he remembered was the party the townsfolk had insisted on throwing for them in gratitude for the way they'd got rid of THRUSH. The innkeeper had poured them drink after drink – some local brew that had turned out to have more of a kick than he'd expected - and he only had the haziest memory of stumbling upstairs to their room, and after that... After that, he was here.

The stone ground was cold beneath him. He rolled over, ready to try and get to his feet somehow, and froze as his bare foot pressed up against something warm and fleshy.

There was a muffled groan. "Napoleon, kindly get your foot out of my face."

Obligingly, he moved. "The fact that you can immediately tell it's my foot suggests we spend too much time together," he said, pulling himself up into a sitting position and hearing Illya do likewise beside him. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"The party," Illya confirmed. "It appears they were not as grateful as it first appeared."

"Or THRUSH came back," he suggested, but he wasn't convinced. Thinking about it, everyone had been very insistent that they stay on for the night. Unfortunately the freak atmospheric conditions that had made the town so attractive to THRUSH for making their latest weather device had also seemingly made their communicators fail.

There was the creak of a door and light came flooding in, followed by three figures dressed in dark, hooded robes. "You are awake," the one at the front said unnecessarily, and Napoleon recognised the voice of Willem, the innkeeper. "I am sorry to have inconvenienced you in this way."

"I'm sure we'll find a way to forgive you," he smiled, holding his hands out meaningfully. "If you let us go right now."

Willem sighed deeply. "Sadly, that's not going to be possible," he said with what sounded like genuine regret. "I'm sorry, I really am, especially since you were so nice about getting rid of all those THRUSH men."

"Kidnap is a poor way to say thank you," Illya said dryly.

"But you see, THRUSH had their uses," Willem said enigmatically.

Hmm. None that Napoleon could immediately think of. "So can I ask what you're planning on doing with us?" he tried. "I have to warn you, our organisation will not pay any kind of ransom for us." He very much doubted that money was what this was about, but in his experience amateurs were more likely to get chatty in the face of mistaken assumptions.

Willem didn't disappoint. "I'm afraid this isn't about any such base motives. You see, you've been chosen for a Glorious Purpose. When I saw you fighting those THRUSH men I knew that you'd been sent to us – now, at all times – as a blessing. Our god demands only the strongest and fastest, you see."

He exchanged a quick, incredulous glance with Illya. "Your...god?" Illya said carefully.

There was a murmur from the other robed figures, an echo of what Willem was saying. "The Dead God. He Who Sleeps Beneath The Mountain And Extinguishes The Stars."

Well, that was...no. He had nothing, and there was something about the way each word had been uttered – heavy, leaden – that sent an inexplicable shudder up his spine.

"And now you will come with us," Willem said, firmly but apologetically. "You must see for yourselves."

The other two robed figures drew guns that had clearly been acquired from THRUSH and stood menacingly by as Willem cut the ropes around their feet and forced them to walk out into the corridor beyond.

It was lit by flickering torches, dotted down the tunnels. As far as he could see, this whole place was made of stone and didn't seem altogether man-made. A cave system, maybe? Although when they'd been trying to locate the THRUSH base, the locals had said there were no caves nearby. Of course, it seemed as though they might have had reason to lie about that.

"Walk," Willem said, pointing down the passage.

There was a chill in the air and a strangely sweet smell he couldn't quite place. And from somewhere nearby and all around there was a humming noise, as though they were in some massive machine, and it didn't feel like he was hearing it with his ears - it was as though he was somehow hearing it through his bones.

The chamber they were pushed into was massive; a cathedral of a cave, the ceiling soaring high above them, hung with glistening stalactites. Rocky outcrops here and there had been fashioned into low stone benches, surrounding a pit, and perched on them were more hooded figures – at least a hundred of them. This must be most of the population of the town. What was going on here?

In response to the gun barrel in his back, he took a couple of steps further into the chamber and froze as something smooth crunched beneath his bare foot. He looked down to see that he was standing on a human femur, set into the stone. Instinctively, mildly horrified, he drew his foot back only to realise that there were more bones in the ground, all around them, like someone was making some awful mosaic.

"Behold the Dead God," Willem proclaimed from behind them, and he looked further into the darkness, past the pit to a raised platform that almost seemed to exude its own lights. There was a throne sat square in the centre, and the figure on the throne...

It was a skeleton, there was no question about that. A human skeleton, bedecked in gold and jewels that seemed to have fused into the very bone. It stared out with empty eye sockets that contrasted with the gold to somehow give the impression of black, black eyes.

"Behold the Dead God." The murmur came from the robed figures all around. "Rejoice in his return."

These people were completely out of their minds. He didn't have to look at Illya to know that his partner agreed; it was long past time to get out of here.

At an unspoken signal, he swung out at the gun-wielding man to his left, aware of Illya doing the same thing on his other side. This Dead God was right; they _were_ fast and they _were_ strong, and even with his hands bound it was the work of seconds to tear the gun away...and it was obvious immediately from the weight that the gun was empty. A trick, and instantly they were submerged by a sea of robed figures, running in all at once, with no regards to their own safety, just trying to hold them while Willem cried out "Be careful! Don't ruin the vessels!" They fought; bravely and brutally, but in the end they were both overwhelmed by sheer numbers and forced to their knees.

He had to watch as Willem pushed a stone cup against Illya's mouth, pulling his head back until he was forced to drink, and when he let go, Illya's head lolled forwards uncontrollably, and Willem stepped forwards with another cup and it was Napoleon's turn.

It tasted like the brew they'd had last night, except stronger. More. He tried to spit it out but, choking, spluttering, he knew he'd swallowed too much.

The room grew impossibly larger, or perhaps it was that he himself had shrunk to the size of a pinprick. He could manage this. He could overcome this, he was trained to resist all manner of drugs.

From somewhere far away he could hear Willem's voice. "And now your minds are open. Receptive and pliable as the Dead God requires. Now prepare them."

He thought he heard Illya mutter something truculent along the lines of "Never pliable" and he wanted to agree, but it felt like a dream as he was pulled to his feet and two beautiful women approached him, their hoods down, and they started washing his bare skin and massaging him with oils. It was sensual and uncomfortable at the same time, and he found he couldn't get away.

And meanwhile Willem stood before the pit, his arms spread wide, before his god. "All the signs and portents have led us to this day, the day that the Dead God will be reborn once more and extinguish the stars. Many of us have been gifted visions – wonders – telling us that the new form of the Dead God will be that of a stranger in our strange land. We waited and watched with patience as THRUSH sought to terrorise our town, searching among them for a champion. And then; our deliverance, in the form of these two vessels. Our time is upon us. His return will be birthed in blood and in fire and then will come the end of all things."

None of that sounded good. What in the world were these people planning?

"Are the vessels prepared?" Willem asked.

"They are," the girl rubbing Napoleon's shoulders confirmed.

"Very well." Willem turned to regard them. "Only the strongest of you may serve as the new form of the Dead God. The other shall be the blood sacrifice, and you shall fight for the determination."

Their bonds were cut and they were pushed bodily down into the pit, the shock of the fall enough to bring him to his senses somewhat. He scrambled to his feet and looked back up towards Willem incredulously as two polished bone spears were thrown down after them. "You can't expect us to fight each other?"

"If you do not then we will be forced to test you ourselves to see who more deserves the prize," Willem warned. "We would strip the flesh from you and your friend's bones to see who screamed. This is kinder, believe me."

"You're out of your minds," Napoleon snapped. "Whether you torture us or try and make us kill each other, it will make no difference. _That_ is a skeleton, nothing more. Whoever it might have been once, they're dead now and they're no kind of god."

"You speak blasphemy," an angry voice called out from the other side, and the murmur of anger swelled around the room.

He heard a noise behind him and he turned quickly to see Illya picking up the spear and advancing towards him.

"What...?" He'd assumed that Illya had managed to throw off the effects of the drink, the same as him. "Illya, snap out of it!" he tried, as he dodged the clumsy attack.

To his relief, Illya rolled his eyes at him in an entirely familiar expression of exasperation, before very quickly showing him a little packet that had apparently come out of the hem of his boxers. Ah. A plan. His eyes widened in understanding. They'd need to make it convincing.

"Come on, you're stronger than this," he tried, retreating carefully, his hands outstretched, until his back was against the wall nearest the platform. Alright then. He watched Illya carefully judge the distance, and then charge – sprint – towards him, and at the last moment Napoleon dropped, holding his hands up to give Illya a foothold as he jumped first onto Napoleon and then up and out of the pit and straight towards the throne and the skeleton.

There were shouts of panic and rage, and the nearest robed figures immediately started running after him, and Napoleon couldn't let them catch him. The spear was in his hand and he lunged upwards, skewering the first one straight through the leg, and he screamed and fell into the pit, his head smashing open on the ground at Napoleon's feet.

Red blood spilled across the ground.

At the same moment, he heard the fizz of a fuse, and he turned to see that Illya had attached his little packet of explosives directly onto the skeleton's chest, and even as his partner stepped back, the explosion detonated.

It should have been enough to destroy the skeleton, creating the perfect distraction for them to make their escape, as the robes tended to their 'god'. That was what should have happened.

Instead, the moment the explosives caught, fire swept outwards, all around the edge of the room, rising up to the ceiling, the heat searing and massive, and the robed figures were all caught in it and they were burning, melting – _screaming._

Illya dropped down into the pit beside him, and they took shelter as the fire raged over their heads, and there was nothing to be burning like this, surely, nothing, this wasn't _possible..._

"We have to get out of here!" he yelled. "If we run, we can make it back through the caves."

With a nod, Illya scrambled to his feet, and they ran towards the edge, scrambling up, helping each other, and the rock was scorching to the touch, and his flesh was blistering everywhere it touched, but he could see the tunnel they'd come through now. They were almost free of the nightmare.

A shadow fell across them, a shadow wreathed in flames.

He turned slowly, somehow already certain what he was going to see. Among the fire a skeleton stood, blackened gold dripping from its bones, and in its eyes he could an endless darkness.

The Dead God reached its skeletal hand out towards him.

"No!" Illya crashed into him, pushing him away, and he fell to the ground, twisting round in time to see that bony hand touch Illya's cheek.

There was...a noise. He couldn't hope to describe it, not really. It was a discordant song, a breath of wrongness, that same awful humming he could hear in his spine. It was all of that, and it was an explosion of something exultant and despite himself he screwed his eyes shut, muttering all the old prayers he remembered from his childhood.

It stopped. The screaming stopped. Now there was nothing but the crackle of the fire, and he remembered himself enough to open his eyes, to get to his feet, to _move._

Illya was standing in front of the fire and there were pieces of bone and gold and jewels scattered at his feet, burning away to ash even as he looked.

He reached out and grabbed Illya's arm, pulling him around, and Illya's eyes were bright, feverish and unfocused.

"We need to get out of here," he said hoarsely.

"Nyet." Illya shook his head, slowly at first and then more rapidly. "Nyet, I need to...it must _end._ " He pulled himself free of Napoleon's hand and made to throw himself directly into the remaining fire.

"Illya!" Somehow, Napoleon managed to grab him again and they struggled for a moment, before Illya went limp and Napoleon was able to drag him away.

He didn't really remember the journey back up the tunnels, the smoke and heat trailing behind them, but somehow he managed to find his way through until they were standing out in the cold air in the middle of the town.

It was over. They were safe, and they both collapsed against the nearest wall, falling down to the ground exhausted.

There were four long, thin, burn marks on Illya's cheeks. Like fingermarks.

He swallowed hard. His hands were shaking. "I have a lot of questions in my head right now," he said, his voice strained, cracking. "But first among them is; you keep explosives in your underwear?"

Illya gave a weary smile.

"What..." He licked his cracked lips. "What was that? What _happened?_ "

"There must have been some sort of gas within the tunnels," Illya said matter-of-factly. "Something that caused delusions in the townspeople – and us – and then caught fire with the explosion."

That...it sounded plausible. Rational. But somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it. "I don't know. We saw - "

" - do you really believe we saw what we saw?" Illya interrupted.

"I don't know what to believe," he admitted. He leaned his head back against the wall, indescribably exhausted. "All I know, is I want to get out of here. Back to New York."

"Yes," Illya agreed, his voice soft and eager.

Just before Napoleon closed his eyes, he would swear he saw Illya's eyes turn black and empty.

Nothing but a trick of the light.


End file.
